


Unwritten

by startraveller776



Category: Labyrinth (1986)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Mystery, One Shot, Romance, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-06 14:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20292646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startraveller776/pseuds/startraveller776
Summary: A wish never made; paths never crossed. Would fate find a way to intervene? Or something else entirely?





	Unwritten

**Author's Note:**

> **IMPORTANT:** This is a repost of an old fic. I have been startraveller776 for over 15 years on various sites, but also have gone by "Misplaced" and "MisplacedMama." If you have doubts, by all means, shoot me an email at misplacedmama @ gmail . com. I'll be happy to chat.

**UNWRITTEN**

* * *

_I dreamt of you last night._   
_ Your cologne still lingers_   
_ on my sheets._   
_ I try not to inhale too deeply_   
_ on that which never was_   
_ and never will be,_   
_ but it overwhelms me_   
_ like a rose garden_   
_ on a warm spring day._   
_ My fingers caress the place_   
_ where you rested your head_   
_ and smiled at me,_   
_ if only as a whisper in my mind._

* * *

This is his favorite memory—though it doesn’t belong to him.

She looks so innocent, so pure, as she searches the ballroom, her umber hair swept back with silver clips. Her mouth opens with startled breath as she is accosted by others. Laughing. Mocking. Whispering innuendos beyond her adolescent understanding.

She isn’t afraid, though, and he likes that. He follows her as she wanders through the room, standing on her toes, twisting her head to look for man whom she seeks.

His heart always thrums in exultation when she finds him among the fray of debauchery. Their eyes meet and the world falls down.

It is a beginning. One they are both unaware of as they dance—her with wide, guileless eyes and him playing a precarious game that will soon lead to his undoing.

This is his favorite memory.

And it doesn’t exist anymore.

* * *

Sarah stared at the painting, unconsciously tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. It was a simple scene, depicted with broad strokes of beige and gray, cerulean and amber. In the background, labyrinthine walls stretched toward the horizon, broken only by the tall, dilapidated castle in its center. But it was the foreground which drew her eyes. Amidst the long, yellowed grass stood a dark figure facing away, pale hair and tattered black cloak whipped by wind.

Why did this seem so familiar?

That morning, she had happened upon the flyer while chasing her windblown scarf into a dank alleyway. It had landed among a discarded pile of leaflets inviting the masses to a new gallery showing. “Kaufman Fine Arts presents the showing of ‘At Wish’s End’ by new, up-and-coming artist, Aden Rían,” the advertisement announced in curling script. She shoved one in her satchel, not planning to attend. When she came home in the evening to an empty apartment and left-over Chinese, she changed her mind.

Goosebumps prickled her skin as she studied the figure. There was something about it—_him_, she was certain—that made her want to reach out, as if touching the painting would breathe life into the scene. The tawny grass would rise and bow with the gusts of wind like a sea of gold. And he would turn around, revealing himself.

Sarah stepped back and shook her head, a sardonic laugh escaping her lips. She hadn’t been given to fits of whimsy since she was a teenager, just before—

_“Please! My baby brother isn’t breathing! He was tangled in the sheets when I found him! Oh, no! Oh, help me, please!”_

_“I know this is scary but you have to stay calm. An ambulance is on its way. Does he have a pulse?”_

She shoved the horrible memory away, squeezing her eyes shut. That night had changed everything for her, given her the perspective she lacked as a self-centered teenager pining after an absent mother. And now, faced with the very image of fantasy she would have loved from those days—days when her neglect had nearly cost her brother his life—it was too much.

It had been a mistake to come here.

“Leaving already?”

The deep voice, almost British but not quite, startled her. Next to her stood a young man, perhaps a year or two older, smiling at her. No, not smiling—more smirking. He wore black jeans and an equally dark shirt, frayed seams held together with silver studs. His white-blond hair was spiked into sharp points, reminiscent of Billy Idol—though, that was the only resemblance he bore to the 80’s rock icon. This stranger’s face was thinner, elven—a look that should have made him seem effeminate but somehow didn’t.

Sarah shrugged. “This isn’t really my kind of thing.” And it wasn’t—not anymore. Her hand went to her chest to clutch the medallion of Saint Genesius hung. Toby had given it to her last Christmas with his trademark lopsided grin.

“Honestly, the Patron Saint of Comedians?” Karen had asked, baffled as her son and step-daughter fell into gales of laughter. She hadn’t understood. She never would.

“That’s a pity,” the young man said, bringing Sarah back to the present. “Have you seen the rest?” He was too close, encroaching on her personal space—almost as if he were challenging her to back away from him.

She stayed right where she was, unintimidated—at least outwardly—by his thinly-veiled arrogance. “Just this one,” she said, gesturing to the stone maze painting. Another wave of chills danced across her skin as she looked at the dark figure. She shook herself and gave her companion a polite smile. “Don’t get me wrong, the artist is good, but the subject matter…”

“Isn’t your kind of thing,” he finished for her. He narrowed his eyes, studying her with a disconcerting intensity. “I don’t believe you—but I’ll accept the compliment anyway. I _am_ rather talented.”

Sarah arched her brows. “You painted this? Aden Ryan?” He seemed young to have this kind of mastery of brush and pigment.

“It’s pronounced _Ree_-ahn,” he said with a nod. “And yes I did. I’ll be quite indignant if you don’t at least view the rest of the collection before criticizing the theme.” He flashed a broad grin full of sharp, white teeth. For a heartbeat, he appeared almost otherworldly—like a figure born from the works of J.R.R. Tolkien.

Sarah blinked and again he looked like a punk rocker. Her imagination was clearly in overdrive, ignited by the long dormant memories of a girl who loved everything fairy and disdained reality—a girl she no longer was. “I’m sure they’re all great,” she said, finally relenting to her subconscious desire to put some distance between herself and Aden, “but I think I’m going to head home.”

He cocked his head. “Oh, come now. What harm is there in humoring a starving artist?”

The hairs rose over her arms at his seemingly innocent request. There had been too much weight to his request, a tension in his body despite his nonchalant façade, as though he needed her acquiescence—desperately. But that didn’t make sense. Why should he care if some guest saw all of his paintings or not? Likely, he merely hungered for approval—any and all—despite the confidence he projected.

Still, Sarah was unsettled.

As if sensing her reluctance, Aden said, “I promise it won’t take long. I’ll even give you the VIP tour.” He spread his hands. “Surely you can’t turn down such a generous offering.”

She hesitated a moment longer, her instincts warning her to be cautious. Why, though? Why she feel as though she was on the cusp of diverging paths? _Turn back. Turn back before it’s too late_.

She stifled the fanciful thoughts, chiding herself for forgetting her hard-earned pragmatism. “When you put it that way,” she said, ignoring the thrumming beat of her heart, “how can I say no? Lead the way.”

Dark triumph lit up his eyes—more than there should have been for merely convincing a patron to stay a few more minutes—and foreboding pooled in her stomach.

_Turn back._

“This one is called ‘Through the Gates,’” Aden said, waving her over to the next piece.

“And what was the first one?” she asked, rubbing at the chills on her arms as she joined him. There was no logical reason for her to be afraid and she refused to cave to some irrational emotion.

“Ah, that’s ‘The Underground.’” He gestured toward the new painting. “Well?”

Gray and brown stone walls rose high in the piece, beyond the top of the canvas. The aged rock had a sheen, almost a glitter, in the ambient light. At the base, patches of the same yellowed grass grew. White and pale blue flowers blossomed on withered vines around ancient, ornately carved wooden gates. Butterflies hung in the air among the sparse foliage. No, not butterflies… Sarah stepped closer to the painting. They were fairies. Tiny little creatures with simple dresses and long white hair. She marveled at the incredible detail.

“Still pretending not to like fantasy,” Aden murmured at her shoulder.

She glanced at him. “I did say that you were a skilled artist. I can admire your work without liking the fairytale theme,” she answered in defiance—though it wasn’t the truth. She was fighting an onslaught of memories. Days spent in the park chasing birds in the hopes of finding a gateway to another world. Afternoons in the library devouring every book on fairytales and mythology she could find. Nights spent dreaming of a legendary and tragic romance.

“Oh, I’m sure.” Aden smirked and led her to the next piece. “Behold, the three fools: ‘Cowardice, Brawn, and Valor.’”

Three men stood together, facing some unseen foe. One was short, wearing a simple attire of brown pants and a vest, his large eyes wide with terror. In the center was a behemoth who was nearly covered in russet hair. Horns curled from his forehead, though his bearded face was human. His teeth bared in a silent growl, he held a boulder over his shoulder as if about to hurl it at Sarah. The third was a knight in gleaming silver armor, sword at the ready. His visor was up, revealing a black patch over one of his eyes. His white beard was trimmed to a point.

“Why are they fools?” Sarah asked. “I understand the coward, but the other two?”

“Because brawn and valor are useless without intelligence and wisdom,” Aden answered. He pointed to the coward. “This one has the brains, but no courage. So, they are all fools.”

“Who are they fighting?”

“Goblins, of course,” he said as if she should have known. Without further explanation, Aden moved on to another painting. Sarah followed, frowning as she tried to remember what she knew of goblin lore. Once she would have been an unofficial authority on the subject, but after years of repressing her obsession with all things mystical, her knowledge on goblins had withered to a few half-remembered references to baby-stealing and changelings.

“And here is the king of the goblins himself.”

Sarah glanced up, surprised to find not a gnarled, inhuman creature as she expected, but instead a man who lounged in a stone sill overlooking the maze below. His head was turned away, most of his face obscured by wispy blond hair which seemed to defy gravity. Only a sliver of his profile was revealed, the curve of his nose and chin, hinting at beautiful visage. And yet, there was an aura of danger about him as well.

He wore all black, like in the first painting, his high-collared cloak falling over the side of the sill. In a gloved hand was a small crystal ball, which he held up as if searching its depths. He was so life-like, so detailed, and before she was aware of what she was doing, Sarah reached forward and laid her fingers against the canvas.

Abruptly, the king of the goblins turned, unusual eyes staring at her from a breathtaking visage. She was rooted as he rose from his seat, his slender form filling the frame as he advanced toward her. His mouth moved, pointed teeth glinting in the light as he spoke, and she heard his voice—rich and commanding—in her mind.

_Who are you?_

Then his fingers met hers. With a gasp, Sarah jerked her hand back, stumbling into Aden. The artist wrapped his arm around her waist, keeping her from tumbling to the ground. Her heart banged in her chest as she wrenched free of his grasp.

“What did you do!?” she demanded. “Did you drug me?”

A disturbing smile stretched across Aden’s mouth, like a predator that had finally cornered its prey. “What did you see?”

She glanced at the painting, expecting to see the king of the goblins climbing out of the frame like some horror film, but he still sat on the parapet, staring into the crystal as if he had not just come alive under her touch. “No.” She backed away from the painting, from Aden, holding up a hand when the artist started to follow. “No, this is all nuts. You’re nuts. You’re some crazy freak.”

Aden advanced on her, still wearing that horrible grin. “What are you afraid of, Sarah? Touching magic? Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

“No, no, no, no!” Sarah shook her head, retreating from him. “Stay away from me!” She ran toward the gallery entrance, slamming into the doors to escape into the cool autumn night.

It wasn’t until she was home she realized Aden had called her by her name.

* * *

She dreamt that night of a grand ball—much like those she had imagined as a child that Cinderella attended. These guests, however, weren’t at all like the sophisticated nobility she had fantasized about. The dancers wore shabby gowns and suits in various states of disrepair, and yet, they were still beautiful—even with their unsettling goblin masks. In a pale silver dress, she was a spectator watching them dance intimately, hearing their crass laughter.

And then, her heart stopped when she saw _him_. The king of the goblins. His white-blond hair stood out in a sea of browns and reds, but he was swallowed by the crowd before she could get a better look. Against all rationality, she was drawn to him, compelled to follow him. She pushed past the celebrants to find him. They pawed at her, laughing, making lewd comments. She shook them off and pressed forward.

Each time she found a hint of him, the other guests would converge on her, tempting her to play, daring her to dance. _Join us. Be one of us._ The promise of pleasure beyond her deepest, darkest fantasies was mesmerizing, and a part of her wanted to succumb to the rapture.

_No!_

She had to find him; the inexplicable compulsion drove her forward. She fought against their snares, shoved against those who stood in her path. Her determination was met with mocking laughter, but the crowd parted, revealing her mark.

The Goblin King.

The painting had not done him justice—not completely. His features were even more refined—otherworldly; his icy blue eyes held a fathomless maturity, like he had known eons before now and would know eons after. The oppressive weight of his power touched her, a tentative push—a gentle enticement to surrender to his will. Behind that caress, though, was a threat: he could _make_ her give in if it suited him.

Sarah stepped back, confidence waning, and he followed. His gaze took in every inch of her, making her feel utterly exposed. She stepped back again, and again he followed, this time reaching for her as if expecting no resistance. The very stars were subject to his whim, his imperious demeanor said.

_Don’t defy me._

Steely resolve ignited in her chest, and she glared at him. _My will is as strong as yours_. He raised an upswept brow, and then laughed. He pulled her into his arms and led her in drowsy circles to the music, uncaring of any objection she might have. But then, why should he when plainly nothing was ever denied him?

She pushed against him and he answered by tightening his arm around her waist, pressing her bodily into him. He smelled of summer, of wine and dark chocolate, and she was nearly consumed by the desire to partake.

Dangerous. More than dangerous.

“Who are you?” His voice was resonating, deep with song and seduction. “How have you hidden yourself from me?”

“This is a dream,” Sarah murmured more to herself than him as she glanced at the other dancers. Leers and hissing laughter met her gaze, and she shivered.

“A dream?” her partner said, mockery hinting in his tone. “Pray tell, yours or mine?”

She turned back to him, her heart pounding beneath his unwavering stare. “Does it matter? None of it’s real.”

He raised a brow. “Oh, it isn’t?” With practiced grace, he spun her under his arm and back against him. The ballroom became a swirl of colors with the swift movement and she had to blink to regain her equilibrium. He leaned into her, bowed his head, and whispered, “I can assure you, mysterious little creature, this is all _very_ real. I can taste the potent _belief_ on your trembling breath—the magic which brought you to me.”

Chills crawled up her spine like a creeping vine, drawing taut every muscle in her back. She pulled away from him, or tried to, but his grip was too firm. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you?” Under the guise of the dance, he was leading them away from the crowd. “This isn’t the first time you’ve summoned me.”

Trepidation clenched her chest, stealing her air, as she recalled touching the painting and how he had come alive at that moment, looking at her with penetrating interest.

Impossible.

That artist had done this to her, somehow—drugged her. This was a dream, a hallucination; it had to be. But the hand that clutched hers was so keenly solid, so horrifyingly real. What if—

“Who are you?” he asked again. When she made no reply, he smiled—a frightening, wolfish thing. “Tell me your name—only your name. I ask for so little.”

And somehow, she knew it was more—that to give him her name, she would give him everything. “I’m nobody,” she answered in a thready voice. They were almost to the outer edge of the ballroom where the shadows grew long and candlelight flickered only dimly. “Just an ordinary girl.”

The king of the goblins shook his head, and his eyes dropped to the bodice of her fitted gown. “Hardly a girl,” he said, looking up with a shrewd smile, “and certainly not ordinary.”

They had breached the outer ring of dancers now, and though he didn’t let go of her, his arm around her waist relaxed. Sarah briefly considered taking advantage of that lapse, but thought he might expect her to flee.

“Where are you taking us?” she asked, casting furtive glances to the side in hopes of finding a better escape. She ignored the small thrill building in her middle in a wholly different kind of anticipation.

“Away from those babbling fools,” he said, “where I can unlock your mysteries, you beautiful enigma.” He pulled her into a dark stone corridor which hadn’t been there before. The music became softer the farther they walked, and her heart pounded louder with building panic and excitement.

Once they were beyond the view of prying eyes, he thrust her against the roughly-hewn rock, his hands straddled on either side of her. “Who are you?” he queried a third time.

Sarah swallowed thickly. She wanted to run from him. She wanted him press his lips over hers and taste her. “No one of consequence.”

He stroked her cheek with a slender finger, and she fought the urge to lean into his touch. “Now why does that feel like a lie?” His hand swept down her neck and down her bare shoulder, leaving a trail of heat it its wake. “Why won’t you tell me your name?”

Her eyelids fluttered at the overwhelming sensation, and she tried to quell the electric warmth tingling across her skin. He was relentless, and her resistance was crumbling at the edges. Everything about him invited her to be swallowed up by him, and she was mere heartbeats away from accepting—gladly.

“Tell me yours first,” she said in a feeble, desperate attempt at distraction.

He tilted his head and smirked. “Oh, clever.” His tongue raked across his lips. “Very clever, indeed. Do you think yourself a match for me, child?”

The arrogance in his tone—the certainty that this wisp of a girl before him was too weak-willed to equal him—made her curl her fingers in anger. “No, Your Majesty,” she said, acknowledging that she had, in fact, known who he was all along. “How can I be a match for you when you are so far beneath me?” She stared him down to drive the point home. Her heart thudded so rapidly in her chest, she thought he might be able to hear it and know the lie.

He seemed genuinely stunned by her bold declaration, and it was the diversion she needed—only just. She ducked under his arm, hitched up her skirts, and bolted from the corridor without a backward glance. The other guests made surprised squeals and shouts as she shoved them out of the way, knocking them into each other. Dread seized her as she discovered no exit other than the hall she had just fled. Clear crystalline walls met her at every turn, and the other dancers laughed at her futile attempts at escape.

He was there, too. Standing amidst the crowd, he watched her, cold anger written on his features. He advanced toward her, the others making way for him. His eyes, dark with promise—of retribution, of everything she could ever want and more—beckoned her to him, and again her resolve threatened to crack. Frantically, she grabbed a chair and flung it toward the wall with a scream. The crystal shattered into a thousand glittering pieces.

Shock fell over the king’s handsome face, and Sarah felt a brief moment of exhilarating triumph before everything fell down.

“I _will _find you.”

His voice, almost a whisper, startled her awake. She shot up in her bed, her hand going to her chest as she sucked in deep, gulping breaths.

It had been just a dream, she told herself. The words were hollow, though, and she shuddered. Deep down, she wanted him to make good on his threat.

She wanted him to be real.

* * *

Sarah sat on the gallery steps, holding a styrofoam cup of coffee that had grown tepid an hour before. A crisp breeze wound around her and she shrugged deeper into her coat. Dark gray clouds covered the sky, warning of a storm coming. It suited Sarah’s sullen mood. The gallery’s owner had invited her to wait for Aden inside, but she declined despite the cold. His paintings were in there—the work which had started this nightmare.

“You’re back.” Aden stood over her, dressed in faded black as he’d been the day before. There was no surprise in his tone.

Sarah rose, leaving her lukewarm coffee on the step. “How do you know my name?” she asked without preamble. “Have you been stalking me?” Unconsciously, her hand dug into her pocket where she had concealed pepper spray.

With a soft chuckle, he brushed past her. “You could say that, I suppose,” he said, opening the door. “Coming?”

Her fingers squeezed painfully around the canister. “We can talk outside.” _Where it’s safe_.

“Ah, but the answers you want are in here.” He made a sweeping gesture toward the gallery. She shook her head, and he shrugged. “Suit yourself.” With a wink, he slipped into the building, leaving her behind in the chill air.

She stared after him, debating for a full minute over whether or not to follow him back into that place. Her hand shook as she reached for the handle and swung open the glass doors. She took a hesitant step inside, then another. With each footfall deeper into the gallery, she felt anticipation gathering around her like a thick fog, heavy and suffocating.

_It’s just a gallery full of silly paintings. It’s nothing._

Nothing.

And everything.

“Changed your mind, have you? Good,” Aden said at her shoulder. Too closely.

Sarah gripped the canister in her pocket again. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Always in such a hurry to run away.” Aden clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. “This way, then.” He made for the back of the gallery and Sarah followed.

She studied him as they traversed the short distance—looking past the elven punk rocker exterior. Her heart fluttered when she noticed the eerie similarities he bore to her hallucinations of the Goblin King. They shared the same nose, the same pointed chin, the same lithe build. But not the eyes. Where the king had striking blue eyes, Aden’s were a muted gray-green.

The artist caught her staring and grinned broadly. She scowled and turned away, though avoiding the paintings they walked past. If she looked, would they move? Come to life? She didn’t want to know.

“Oh, you found him.” The gallery owner stood at the threshold of her office. She wore white jeans and a graphic t-shirt under a periwinkle blazer. Her auburn hair was cropped short on one side and shoulder-length on the other. “Listen,” she said, turning to Aden, “George called and I need to step out for a bit. Can you keep an eye on the place for me? It’ll only be for an hour or so.”

“I’m at your service,” Aden replied with a flourishing bow. He glanced at Sarah from the corner of his eye, his mouth curving into a secretive smile. “I have some things I want to show my guest, anyway.”

The owner gave him a knowing nod. “Don’t have _too_ much fun, you two. We try to keep things professional in this gallery.” She was gone before Sarah could explain that this was not, in any way, _that_ kind of visit.

Aden led them to a back room, walls stacked with paintings. “Alone at last.” Each word was charged with a darker meaning, like a final portent before fate reared its terrible head.

Sarah sucked in a deep breath to steady herself, to drive away this irrational sense of foreboding. She was not some giddy adolescent who saw fairy rings in every circle of trees and brownies lurking in the shadowed corners of her home. She was a woman now—practical and rational—with both feet planted firmly in reality.

“You used to be well-versed in fairytales, mythology, folk stories, and the like,” Aden said as he began rifling through a stack of canvases.

Sarah frowned, gripping the pepper spray as if to anchor herself. “How did you know?”

Aden ignored her question. “Do you know the story about the girl who wished her brother away to the goblins?”

Sarah’s brow furrowed deeper. “I know that goblins were supposed to have stolen babies in folklore.”

“Yes, they do.” Aden nodded and moved onto another stack, apparently not having found what he was looking for. “But this story is a special one, since the girl captured the attention of the king, himself.” He glanced up at her. “Are you sure you don’t know it?”

“Why would I?” Sarah took an unconscious step back. Aden spoke as though goblins were real—as though the world he had created with his paint brush actually existed. And his faith was so powerful, so certain that she could almost believe it, too.

_I can taste the potent_ belief _on your trembling breath._

“Because, Sarah,” Aden said, lifting a painting from the stack, “you’re the girl.” He turned the canvas around and held it out to her.

Sarah’s hand went to her mouth to stifle a gasp. The painting was of her dream the night before. How did he…? How _could_ he know? There she was in the arms of the Goblin King, captured mid-step as they danced among a crowd of bawdy revelers. The monarch looked down at her as if she alone was all that mattered to him. And she… No, it was her, and yet it wasn’t. This girl, whose wide, innocent eyes searched the ballroom, had yet to reach the cusp of womanhood. Her face still held the roundness of youth, despite her flawless makeup and beautifully coiffed hair.

Aden had painted a younger version of her, erased the years until she was only a teenager. Nothing more. But then, every other detail was the same as her dream, down to the king’s bejeweled waistcoat and blue tints in his white-blond hair. Aden couldn’t have known any of those things.

Sarah backed away, her heart thumping wildly. “I don’t know who you are or how you did this.” She waved toward the disquieting image. “But I’m done. If you come near me again, I’m calling the cops.” Thunder cracked in the background as if to accentuate her statement.

She spun around and stormed out of the storage room, only to jump back when Aden materialized out of thin air before her. Impossible! He must have drugged her again somehow. Sarah yanked at the pepper spray, but it caught on the corner of her pocket.

“Get away from me!” she yelled when she finally managed to get the canister free.

Aden watched her, unfazed by the threat, his expression grim. “I had hoped for a less traumatic reunion, but you’ve left me no choice.” He took a step toward her.

“If you don’t let me leave,” Sarah said, aiming the pepper spray with a quaking hand, “I will use it.”

“I would expect nothing less.” Aden smiled, pride flickering in his green eyes. “Shall we be on with it, then?” He raised his hand, and with a twist of his wrist, the pepper spray was torn from her grip and flew across the gallery. It landed with a metallic clatter.

Aden was on her before she could scream, dragging her across the room toward his paintings. She struggled against him, clawed at his face, his clothes, but her desperate efforts were in vain. The gallery shook with rumbling thunder with each step and the air became sharp, electric.

“Will you never stop fighting?” Aden asked, his voice only showing a hint of strain as he heaved her toward his painting of the Goblin King. “Then again, he’s loved that about you. Not that I blame him, really.”

“Who?” Sarah said, still trying to tear free from Aden’s grasp. “Another psychopath like you!?”

Aden threw back his head and laughed. “We are very alike, yes.” He grabbed Sarah’s hand and, slamming it against the painting, murmured against her ear, “I am, after all, my father’s son.”

Lightening sliced through the gallery and they were whipped by a torrential wind. Sarah watched with horror as the king of the goblins came to life once more under her touch. This time there was no languid turn of his head or slow advance until he filled the frame. This time, the terrifying king moved with inhuman speed, his varnished fingers reaching through the canvas and twining with hers before she could yank her hand back. He bore his teeth in a feral grin.

And then, he pulled.

“No!” Sarah screamed, trying to free herself from his grip. He was too strong, though, and her hand went through the barrier, became a part of the artwork. Horror washed over her like a frigid tsunami as her forearm turned to brush strokes and pigment. She fought desperately, and still he pulled. Her elbow was next. Soon she would be lost.

Arms wrapped around her waist and jerked her back so hard the air was sucked out of her lungs. At first she seemed stuck, as if she were the rope in some twisted version of tug-o-war between two evenly matched opponents. Her arm felt as though it might be torn off before either man relented, and she frantically kicked at the painting with both feet. The wooden frame cracked, and she kicked again, hoping if she destroyed the artwork it would break the spell.

The thought had apparently occurred to the Goblin King as well as his mouth thinned into a scowl. _So be it_. The words sliced through Sarah’s mind and she suddenly fell backward, landing hard on Aden. The artist grunted beneath her, but she was frozen, watching in terror as the king crawled out of the painting like some monster from a horror film, his gloved hand still grasping hers until both of his feet were planted on the marble floor of the gallery.

He stretched tall as he took in his surroundings, tattered cloak billowing as the maelstrom died down. Glitter settled in a fine sheen in a circle around him. Sarah had never seen anyone so beautiful and frightening. She scrambled off of Aden, cold dread fisting in her stomach as her sudden movement drew the piercing eyes of the Goblin King. A triumphant smile crept across his lips and he advanced toward her in an unhurried, satisfied gait. Sarah backed away from him, step by quaking step.

“Thrice you summon me,” he said, taking her in with a sweeping gaze. “Why do you flee when you so clearly want the attentions of the king of the goblins? This won’t do at all.” He crooked his finger and Sarah’s heart stopped as she flew toward him. He caught her easily, winding an arm about her waist to hold her tight against him.

She shoved at him with frenzied hands even as fluttery anticipation bloomed in her middle. The scents of summer, wine, and dark chocolate overpowered her, sending her in a tailspin of juxtaposing desires to claw out his icy eyes and to kiss him until she forgot to breathe. “Let me go!” she screamed, more to wake herself from the daze of growing heat than for him to release her.

“Never,” he said, still wearing his wolf’s grin. “All of the believers are within my power, and you, girl, are one of them.”

Her skin pebbled with gooseflesh at his words, as if it made perfect sense that she should belong to him. She _had_ been a believer in all the mythos, the legends, in everything he seemed to represent. A teenaged Sarah would have died from bliss to be claimed by a breathtaking fairytale king. But she wasn’t an adolescent anymore.

“No.” She pushed futilely against him. “I’m not one of them. You have no power over me!”

He let go of her so abruptly, she almost collapsed to the floor. His eyes widened as he stared at her, the unsettling smile gone from his lips. “What did you say?” His question was a haunted whisper.

She opened her mouth to repeat her declaration, feeling confidence blossom in her chest, but he shot out an arm before she could speak and grabbed her jaw, drawing her face closer to his. Faint recognition glimmered in his eyes as he studied her.

“Sarah.”

He seemed almost as startled as she was by the sound of her name passing over his tongue. Chills shot down her spine as she gazed up at him. There had been something in his tone, the way he almost rolled the “r” in her name that prickled at the edge of her memory.

“Sarah,” he said again, tasting the familiarity of that single word. He curled a lock of her hair around his finger, studying it as if all the mysteries of the world were locked in its dusky depths. “The young girl in the park,” he murmured absently, “who always played the enchanted princess.” He brought his unearthly eyes back to hers. “Who always believed with implacable faith she was no ordinary girl but meant for greater things—for magic.”

An image of a thin red volume with gilded letters flashed in Sarah’s mind, and with it, another forgotten scene surfaced. A fair-haired man crouched before her in a ring of trees, holding the little book out to her. Robert had called to her, drawing her attention away for a heartbeat, and when she looked back the man was gone. The book laid on the ground in his place.

“You gave me something,” she said almost to herself. Something she had lost before she was old enough to read. What would have happened if she hadn’t misplaced the book? What kind of sorcery was within its pages?

The Goblin King flashed a caustic grin as he dropped the lock of her hair. “It would seem that even in the folly of your youth, you thwart my designs. No ordinary girl, indeed. No ordinary believer, either.” He cupped her face and asked in a voice near reverence, “Who are you really, Princess Sarah?”

“My mother, the Queen.”

Sarah’s blood froze at Aden’s words. She shook her head, backing away from the king—the king whom Aden declared to be his father. “That’s not true,” she said. “It can’t be. I’ve never met him before yesterday.” Even as she protested, though, she was drawn to the artist’s eyes—_her_ green eyes—and the brows above them. Though an almost colorless blond, they were not the upswept peaks like his father’s, but gentle crescents. The same as hers.

“It can’t be,” she repeated, refusing to accept the evidence to the contrary. It was impossible, and yet again there was a niggling sense of rightness. She belonged to the king of the goblins and him to her.

_Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered…_

Her vision doubled and she cried out, clasping her head in writhing pain, as an onslaught of memories flooded her mind. Memories of another life—a different life.

_I have fought my way here to the castle beyond the goblin city to take back the child you have stolen…_

The agony drove her to her knees and the ground seemed ripple out from her, sending spidery cracks in the marble in every direction. She remembered wishing the goblins would take Toby away and her horror when her careless plea had been answered. She remembered traversing an endless labyrinth, facing danger at every turn.

_For my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom as great…_

Bolts of lightning lanced down around her, sending up sprays of chipped stone. She covered her ears at the booming thunder, remembering. Ever remembering. Defeating the king of the goblins and winning her brother back. Finding the mystical monarch sitting casually on a park bench near her dorm room, as if in answer to her silent frustration over the drabness of life. Choosing his world full of danger and magic over hers rife with needless paperwork and seatbelts. Experiencing the unparalleled joy of holding her squalling son—_their_ son—in her arms for the first time after the misery and exhaustion of childbirth—

“Stop!”

Sarah’s head snapped up and she found the king’s command had not been directed at her, but at Aden. He crossed the gallery toward the artist, the lightning clearing a path for him. Menace twisted his features as he raised an accusing finger. “What have you done, boy?” His words were quiet, but seemed to rise above the din of the storm.

“I made a mistake,” Aden answered. He seemed to shrink before the king, gone was his self-assured swagger from before. “I took the book before she could read it.”

The Goblin King’s face darkened with murder in his eyes. “You dare to tear asunder that which fate put together!” His voice grew louder with each word, fury crackling in his tone.

“I tried to make it right,” stammered Aden, “but I was trapped here, powerless like a simple mortal. I only wanted to know if she would have found her way to our world without your entrapment. You intervened unfairly.”

Sarah rose as understanding tingled through her, washing away the last dregs of the pain she experienced but moments before. She recalled now all the scenes from the life stolen from her, including her son’s inherited sense of justice. He’d asked her the story of how he came to be—every detail, not just the pretty trimmings—and was outraged to learn his father had put her through hell in order to bring her into his world, to give her a taste of the ethereal which she would crave until he came for her again. Sweet, foolish Aden.

“Jareth.”

Her voice filled every corner of the room, and the storm silenced in response to the quiet peace within her. No longer did her heart race in fear or her limbs tremble with horrified disbelief. The marble tiles healed beneath her feet as she walked toward the two men—her two great loves. They stared at her with twin expressions of astonishment, and she knew neither had guessed at her rebirth as the queen she had once been. No ordinary girl, Jareth had called her. No ordinary believer. She’d been born with the auspicious purpose to one day be the fire and water that tempered the white hot steel of the Goblin King. As he had been the answer to her hope of something more than this prosaic life, so had she been his answer to his unconscious need for an equal who would challenge him, change him.

“How can it be real love, Mother,” Aden had asked before disappearing, before ripping apart the past, “when it was all orchestrated by some grand scheme of my father’s?”

“This is how,” she whispered under her breath now as she reached her son and stroked his cheek with motherly affection. “Your father may have intervened, but it was fate which directed his hand.”

She then turned to her husband and nearly laughed at how he regarded her like she was viper about to strike. He didn’t flinch when she took his face in her hands, but neither did he hide the wariness that drew creases in the corners of his eyes. “Remember,” she murmured just before pressing her lips against his.

He was stiff, resistant at first—no doubt fearing what her power might do—but soon he pulled her against him hungrily. She poured every memory she had of him into the kiss. Memories of how he taunted her during her run of the Labyrinth. Of his determined courtship of her years later. Of their fights which shook the foundations of the castle. Of their make-up sessions which left her panting and her skin glistening with sweat. Of the playful battles they shared, filling the walls of the great maze with laughter. Of the songs he sang to her while they danced beneath the stars.

Memories of his love for her and hers for him.

“Sarah,” he said in breathless grin against her mouth. “My beautiful, terrible Sarah.” Her heart sang at affection in his tone.

Everything had been restored.

“How did you do that?” Aden’s bewildered question interrupted their reunion. “You were human again. I thought if I could use you to bring him here, he might be able to fix this. But _you_ did it.”

Jareth turned to his son, his smile transforming to his typical arrogant smirk. “Perhaps a few days spent in the oubliette will finally burn the following truth into your addled understanding: Sarah has always been the key to everything.” With a brief flick of Jareth’s wrist, Aden vanished, his protests reverberating throughout the gallery.

“And you,” Jareth said, returning his attention to Sarah, “are the most willful, obstinate, insufferable girl in any reality. I demand that you make up for every frustration you caused me in this one, including your destruction of my ballroom yet again.”

She laughed and reached up to tangle her fingers in his downy hair. “Then I had better get started.”

She pulled his mouth to hers and he kissed her as a starving man before an endless feast, greedily, desperately. There was a subtle shift in the air and she didn’t need to open her eyes to know they were no longer in the gallery. She was home again, in the arms of the very king who had terrified her only an hour before. Already her recollections of her false past were beginning to fade, replaced by the exultation of returning to where she belonged.

* * *

This is his favorite memory—though it doesn’t belong to him.

She looks so innocent, so pure, as she searches the ballroom, her dark hair swept back with silver filigree clips. He follows her as she wanders, standing on her toes, twisting her head to look for man whom she seeks.

When she finds him among the fray, their eyes meet and the world falls down.

This is Aden’s favorite memory.

And he understands now that nothing will ever keep them apart—not even a petulant young man who still has much to learn about love.

**~FIN~**


End file.
